


An Accidental Occurence

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cunnilingus, D/s, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, F/F, Light Bondage, Orgasm Delay, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Sex Pollened Character/Non Sex Pollened Character, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-07 06:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12227619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Finduilas is accidentally dosed with sex pollen. Nienor takes advantage of this (or rather, Finduilas takes advantage of this and drags Nienor along for the ride, until Nienor decides to turn the tables on her).





	An Accidental Occurence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> I hope you don't mind that I didn't write your suggested idea, amyfortuna, because this tag + the 'kinky, dubconny sex' in your general likes grabbed at me and and wouldn't let go.
> 
> Other kinks that feature in the fic (but not for long enough to tag for them) and faceslapping and some painplay.

“ _A flower called the púcelótë in Quenya (a name for the plant as a whole does not appear to exist), which induced sexual arousal and targeted only Elven, was thought to exist in the forests of First Age Beleriand. Several Sindar have, according to Bregor's Plants of Power (TA 245) given accounts of this flower [5], although the accuracy of these accounts is doubtful given that they have not been verified. _

_These stories, however, all have one element in common: the flower can create arousal only in Elves. Scholars have postulated that unique features of Elven physiology which increase their immunity also make them more vulnerable to the effects of the flower. [7] (One must, however, remember that this is pure speculation, since human scholars have been unable to find samples of this flower to study.)_

_The flower is thought to induce arousal and desperation for orgasm for a period of six to thirty-six hours. The organ or structure responsible for causing this arousal is unknown, although it is probable that the mechanism was airborne release of chemicals, suggesting that seeds are involved._

_It is thought that the flower 'feeds' on the arousal and/or orgasm of its victims...”_

—Míriel of Gondor, Myths And Truths: Plant Life of the First Age, _Chapter 20: Flowers and Desire_ , (Fourth Age 34)

 

 

* * *

 

 

There is a strange, soft dust in the air, filtering golden-brown through the sunlight and spreading a sweet, sugary scent across the forest they're walking through. It wasn't there a minute ago, and when Niënor looks, she can see that it has a source: a large flower nestled between two trees and surrounded by bushes, its petals a dark, shocking red and strangely shaped, its head releasing the grain that wafts through the air.

Niënor turns to Finduilas. “Did you see—”

She stops. For Finduilas had halted a few steps behind without Niënor's knowledge, and she's leaning against a tree now, her pack discarded, cheeks flushed and chest heaving.

“Finduilas!”

Niënor is hurrying to her lover's side before Finduilas can speak; Finduilas' eyes are dark, and beads of sweat well up across her forehead. She's breathing hard. Niënor feels her worry rising at the sight. Finduilas looks _ill_ , except for how Elves are immune to most diseases, and illnesses do not occur this suddenly, anyway.

“Are you—”

“Flower,” Finduilas says, her breath coming short and sharp between words. “Pollen, I—inhaled. Think.”

And oh. _Oh._

So the stories are true after all. Niënor feels a sudden rush of guilt, quickly subsumed by sheer, utter panic.

(She had not believed Finduilas when Finduilas talked of a flower whose pollen acted as an extreme aphrodisiac. Pollen which is produced more copiously than normal, only affects Elves, and prevents the sufferers from travelling more than a short distance from the flower. A flower which feeds on the arousal and climax of Elves, apparently (Niënor had heard more ridiculous stories, but this one was possibly the most _impossible_ , or so she had thought). Finduilas had not seen this flower herself; the stories, she had said, were more myth than truth, but the forest where the flower grew abundantly was rumoured to lie in their path, and better safe than sorry—

At this point, Niënor had interrupted with complaints about having to take the long way around, adding more than a week to their journey, because of a fairy-tale with no root in reality. It had taken very little persuasion to get Finduilas to agree, surprisingly. Now, Niënor regrets that.)

“I want you,” Finduilas says, and she sounds shocked. (Niënor is a little insulted; Finduilas has demonstrated, in the past, how very thoroughly she wants Niënor. She doesn't need to act so surprised.) “I want you, Niënor.”

“Thank you?” It is—it's strange, because Niënor has wanted Finduilas since she first saw her, and she thinks it's the same for Finduilas, but they don't articulate the sentiment like this. It's most definitely strange, and now Finduilas is straightening herself, pushing up and away from the tree, and oh, does that mean that the effects of the aphrodisiac have worn off?

But no. Finduilas kisses her. Finduilas surges into the kiss, deep and passionate, for a moment, but just as suddenly as she kisses Niënor, she moves away.

“I—” Finduilas shakes her head. Her eyes are glassy and her lips are, impossibly, red and kiss-swollen from the momentary brush of Niënor's lips.

She looks thoroughly debauched, and Niënor wants to touch her, to run her hands across every inch of Finduilas' skin and lick and suck the secret places that she knows will undo Finduilas. But, she reminds herself with effort, she doesn't know what this strange plant is doing to Finduilas, and she shouldn't. She can't. It would be a violation of Finduilas' trust. “Finduilas. What do you—what do you want me to do?”

“Fuck me,” Finduilas says, and it sounds as if the words are being torn out of her throat. Then, “No, I didn't say that, I didn't mean that. I _want_ you to fuck me, but—” She breaks off with a frustrated groan. She's tugging at her hair with one hand (sharp movements that must hurt), and the other hand is palming her own breast.

The sight is riveting, even though it shouldn't be. Niënor bites her lip, hard. She knows Finduilas well enough to know that she shouldn't look, shouldn't pounce on Finduilas and kiss her breathless no matter how much she wants to.

But Finduilas _wants_ , that much is clear, and—

 _Stop,_ Niënor tells herself, digging her teeth into her lip. The copper taste of blood when the skin of her lip breaks is a welcome distraction.

Except for how Finduilas' hips are moving, unconsciously, even as she says, “What is _happening_ to me?” She palms a breast and runs a hand over her crotch.

It's clearly a rhetorical question, but Niënor replies anyway. “It seems that you were right about the flower. Apparently. I was stupid to ignore it.”

Finduilas doesn't gloat. Niënor admires her restraint, because she would never be able to resist gloating (has never been able to resist gloating) at her lover's admittance of stupidity, aroused and crazed by lust because of a magic sex flower or not.

Although Finduilas isn't gloating because she seems to have lost all her inhibitions she's rutting against the tree, now. And it can't be comfortable—the rough bark must hurt, and she's probably getting very little stimulation—but she's moving vigorously and moaning, her head falling back to reveal the long lines of her throat and her hands clutching the tree for support. The sight is so completely arousing that Niënor has to look away for a moment to keep herself under control.

When she turns back to Finduilas, she barely bites back the groan that threatens to escape her lips.

Finduilas is pulling her tunic over her head, arms getting tangled in the cloth for a moment, in her haste, before she manages to get it off. Her underblouse clings to her body, concealing nothing, hugging the curves of her breast and the plane of her stomach, and when she bends to tug off her boots, the material stretches across her back in a delicious arc.

Niënor wants to scream at Finduilas to stop (she wants, she wants so much, but she can't, not while Finduilas is like this), but it wouldn't be fair in the least. Finduilas doesn't know what she's doing, not really.

Except she's stripping off her underblouse and leggings, now, and she's fully naked, and Niënor can't tear her eyes away from the dark brown rosebuds of Finduilas' nipples and the freckles scattered across her collarbones and the firm muscle of her stomach and arms. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, but tendrils of lust snake themselves through her body.

Finduilas wraps herself around Niënor in one fluid move, naked skin pressing against Niënor's clothes _everywhere_ , and kissing Niënor again, tangling her hands in Niënor's hair. The kiss is _good_ and mind-melting, and she doesn't want to stop, but—

“Enough,” Niënor says hoarsely, pushing Finduilas away, _hard_. Finduilas stumbles back a few steps, a wounded look on her face. “Enough, Finduilas, I am _not_ going to do this while you're under the influence of that—plant.”

Finduilas makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. Then, “I'm sorry, Niënor, I just can't _stop_. I don't _want_ to stop.”

“I know.” Niënor doesn't blame Finduilas (of course she doesn't, how can she), but she doesn't know what to do. She rubs a hand over her face—

—and dammit. Finduilas is touching herself now, rubbing her clit, and it's a sight that's tempting, _too_ tempting.

“ _Stop_ ,” Niënor snaps, and, wonder of wonders, Finduilas actually does.

Finduilas moves closer to Niënor, though, so Niënor isn't sure whether Finduilas stopping counts.

She doesn't seem inclined to start _touching herself_ again, or kissing Niënor, so Niënor relaxes fractionally. She's standing next to Niënor, gloriously naked still (and Niënor is hyperaware of Finduilas' nudity), but she's not _touching_.

Niënor almost relaxes again.

But then Finduilas brushes her finger along Niënor's skin, leaving blazing trails of fire. That one action, somehow, is what undoes her.

She captures Finduilas' lips in a hard, bruising kiss.

Finduilas is—

She is completely, utterly out of her mind. There's no other word for the way she surges forward, pressing Niënor's back against the tree trunk (the tree trunk Finduilas had been rutting against, Niënor's mind supplies), _attacking_ her mouth, biting at her lips.

With an effort (a _lot_ of effort; the way Finduilas bites on her lips had re-opened the wounds Niënor had caused, and the rush of pain and the sharp tang that still fills her mouth is entirely too pleasurable), Niënor wrenches herself away. “No, Finduilas. If we do this, we're doing this _my_ way.”

Finduilas pulls away, too. Her eyes are dark, filled with hunger. “I'm not in the mood for teasing, Niënor, you know—”

She's cut off by Niënor's mouth on hers again; Niënor grabs Finduilas' wrists and spins both of them around so that Finduilas' back is to the tree, now, her hands pinned above her head. (She wouldn't be able to, normally, because Finduilas is much stronger than her, but the aphrodisiac has mellowed Finduilas out, made her more pliable. And, too, Niënor would suspect that Finduilas is _letting_ her do what she wants if not for the fact that Finduilas is squirming under her, attempting to move her hands out of Niënor's grip to touch. Finduilas loves control, normally, but this wouldn't be the first time Niënor manhandled her, even if the occasions are few and far between.)

Niënor kisses Finduilas until she stops wriggling and attempting to take control of the kiss, her mouth going slack and pliant, allowing Niënor to do as she wants.

Then— _then_ —Nienor steps away.

She keeps her wrists on Finduilas' hands, though, a casual restraining grip. She doesn't trust Finduilas not to jump on her the moment she lets go (and isn't _that_ a change; usually Niënor is the eager one).

This presents a problem, though: undressing. She can't let go off Finduilas, doesn't want to, but she refuses to get her clothes dirty. Which might become an issue.

One of the belts around her waist. It's the semi-decorative one (not the leather one which has pouches and hooks for various odds and ends), made of cloth, and not the kind of cloth that'll tighten unkindly around Finduilas' wrists. Any redness it leaves will fade by next morning. (Niënor likes marks that she can show off. Finduilas doesn't. Finduilas usually doesn't like a lot of the things she's doing now, but any marks left behind will be the unforgivable offence once Finduilas is back to herself.)

She loops Finduilas's hands together, then uses the climbing-rope looped around her waist to tie the scarf around the tree trunk. Finduilas will be able to move around some, but not much. Definitely not _enough_.

Then she begins to remove her clothes.

She's deliberately slow, because Finduilas is watching her, wide-eyed, and she definitely deserves to be teased after everything she's done to Niënor today. The remaining belt, first, and she lays it aside gently. Then her tunic, tugged off very, very slowly, and her leggings, too. She's in her undergarments, now, and she pauses for a moment, watching Finduilas.

Because Finduilas—Finduilas is always beautiful, but especially so when she's aroused, and now, she's even more aroused than usual. Strands of hair have escaped her braids and are sticking to her sweat-soaked forehead, and her cheeks are flushed. She's biting on her lips, leaving them red and cracked and even more kissable (painfully kissable, but they both enjoy the pain), and her arms are straining against their bindings, highlighting the muscles built through many years of war and training. Her eyes are shining, and she's breathing deeply; her breasts rise and fall with every breath, drawing attention to the beautiful mounds with the brown nipples which have become two peaks, begging to be touched. Her stomach is tight, and (Niënor's eyes wander lower), her clit and entrance are hidden by a patch of curly black hair. Finduilas has opened her legs wide enough that glimpses of pink are visible, and she's making small, bitten-off noises, a smidgen of self-control re-asserting herself as she suppresses the sounds even as the rest of her body moves as if attempting to find a way to secure her release.

Suddenly, there is nothing more in the world that Niënor wants than to touch Finduilas. She hurriedly discards her undergarments (Finduilas' eyes tracking her every moment), and kisses Finduilas again.

Lighter, this time, because she's occupied by the sensitive skin between Finduilas' collarbones and shoulder, the spot that makes her shudder with delight. Niënor _adores_ watching Finduilas' face become suffused with pleasure when she even brushes that spot; an answering thrill shoots up her own body, and she can feel the heat rising across her skin. She presses harder, just to watch Finduilas clench and unclench her hands against her bindings.

“Please, Niënor—” Finduilas' voice breaks. “ _Touch me._ ”

The note of desperation in Finduilas' voice sends a rush through Niënor, but she knows it's best, with Finduilas, not to stay on one spot too long. She moves to tracing her collarbone in deliberately slow, languid movements, her other hand pressing against Finduilas' sides, a light pressure.

“Please,” Finduilas gasps again.

Niënor has her limits, and Finduilas' voice is her supreme weakness. She won't give in completely, not yet (she's not aroused enough, for one; she can feel her wetness between her thighs, but she's not gone far enough yet), but she has enough pity to move her hands to Finduilas' collarbone.

Finduilas' breasts are a thing (things? Niënor's head is too lust-addled to decide) of beauty, round and soft and perfect, and Niënor loves to play with them, to squeeze them in her hands and tug at Finduilas' sensitive (and even more sensitive now, probably) nipples. She loves, too, the noises Finduilas is making, small, short gasps and the occasional high-pitched yelp.

The feeling of the wrinkled skin of Finduilas' nipples against the pads of her fingers is delightful, but she loves, too, the way Finduilas writhes when Niënor allows her hands to dance across Finduilas' belly. The two in conjunction must be completely overwhelming, Niënor knows. The kind mood of earlier is gone; she wants Finduilas desperate and squirming, so she does not let up.

Slowly, even as she sucks and rolls, she lets the hand on Finduilas' belly dance lower. She lingers for a while on Finduilas' navel, teasing the sensitive skin inside to feel Finduilas shudder against her, pinching and twisting. Then she scratches five long lines down Finduilas' body, from her breast to the nest of curls just above her cunt, and her nails make a satisfying sound against Finduilas' skin, leaving five lovely looking pink trails behind. (These marks are fine. These private marks, Finduilas loves.)

She tugs sharply at the wiry hair above Finduilas' crotch, twisting and tangling her fingers in it even as her mouth moves across Finduilas' breast. (Her back hurts from the contortion, but the wash of pleasure dims it to a dull feeling in the corner of her mind.)

The plan was to skip Finduilas' cunt entirely and tease the tender skin of her inner thighs, but she can't reach that far, and Finduilas seems to be worked up enough already, so she dips her fingers into Finduilas' cunt.

She's ruthless, attacking the tender skin with dancing fingers, her touches alternating between ahrd pressure and light, feathery teasing. The tender inner lips of Finduilas' cunt gets her attention, as does Finduilas' sensitive clit, but she also roams over the not-quite-as-receptive skin on either side of her cunt.

Finduilas is utterly, completely soaking wet, and Niënor pulls off from Finduilas' nipple to better revel in the sensation and enjoy the pleasure that rushes through her and right to her clit at Finduilas' arousal.

She's had years to perfect her technique, to find the places which make Finduilas writhe and moan in pleasure, and she employs that skill, but she also chooses not to employ it, sometimes, alternately teasing and giving pleasure, sometimes drawing away completely, sometimes pushing two or three fingers into Finduilas' cunt, never allowing Finduilas to guess exactly when or where the next touch, the next stroke, the next twist, will come.

Then, suddenly, she feels Finduilas tense against her, skin on skin, her head falling to the side. Oh. Niënor knows this kind of tensing, the tension that means that Finduilas is near orgasm.

She draws away. It is with some effort that she makes herself move, lust-addled as she is, but she manages to draw away. She doesn't want Finduilas to climax, not yet. Finduilas prefers not to climax until after Niënor does. (And if it's payback for the teasing of earlier, too, well, Niënor has never claimed to be perfect.)

“If I untie you, will you keep your hands to yourself?”

Finduilas nods, but she's not as convincing as she probably wants to be; she's still breathing heavily and her cheeks are red, and her hips have begun to move in an involuntary motion (that can't be providing any stimulation, so Niënor allows it).

Niënor considers this for a moment, the desire for her own climax wins out over preventing Finduilas'. While she loves seeing Finduilas in the throes of pleasure, she's aroused and on edge and has been so for what feels like _hours_.

“I'm going to untie you from the tree, but your hands will stay bound. Don't touch yourself, or there _will_ be consequences.”

She manoeuvrers Finduilas onto her knees (Finduilas' attempts to touch Niënor and to get Niënor to touch her are hindered by her bound hands). Or, _manoeuvrers_ is, perhaps, too tasteful a word—she unties Finduilas, shuffles her around (her back, Niënor notices through the haze of pleasure, has been scraped in several places by the bark of the tree—she'll have to see to that later), and pushes her shoulder until she stumbles into a kneel.

Niënor's spread legs are all the invitation Finduilas needs, apparently, because she's diving at Niënor's cunt the moment Niënor positions herself. Finduilas' eagerness is overwhelming, and Niënor has to steady herself against the tree trunk at the sudden rush of feeling in her neglected clit and cunt.

The technique which Finduilas has perfected isn't being used at all; instead, she's licking sloppily. It shouldn't feel as _good_ as it does, but the tongue lapping at her cunt makes Niënor cry out with pleasure. Then Finduilas switches it up, licking up and down her cunt in long, wet stripes, now at her clit, now at the tender place between her cunt and her hole, and—

It's completely by accident that she looks down and sees that Finduilas has managed to pull her hands in front of her, and is getting off by humping her wrist.

Niënor pulls Finduilas up by her hair, knowing that the thrill of pain will just add to Finduilas' pleasure, and herself thrilling in the rush of power.

“Did I not tell you that you weren't to get off?” Niënor demands

“Since you're not helping me ou—”

Finduilas' words are cut off by a slap to her cheek. She likes the colour, Niënor decides, as she slaps Finduilas again, _hard_. And once she starts, she doesn't stop, and she doesn't hold back either; the smack of her hand against Finduilas' flesh echoes through the trees again and again until Finduilas has stopped attempting to speak and her cheeks are an interesting shade of red, a shade of red which, Niënor knows by experience, indicates that the sting has become a fiery, throbbing pain. “I _told_ you to keep your hands to yourself, Finduilas.”

Finduilas doesn't look sorry in the least (to the contrary, she's dazed and looks even more aroused than before, if that's possibla), but she's stopped trying to speak.

Niënor ties the loose ends of her sash (still looped around Finduilas' hands) to Finduilas' braid. That way, Finduilas can't touch herself, but she can tug at her hair all she wants. Ad the pain, Niënor knows, will become pain-pleasure for her, driving her man with the lack of stimulation that will bring her to climax, but sending shocks of arousal through her at the same time.

“Well?” Niënor raises an eyebrow when Finduilas doesn't move back into position. “What are you waiting for?” (She doesn't actually mind the slowness—Finduilas looks gorgeous struggling against the bondage (or into it, possibly, because she probably likes the bite of her hair being tugged when she moves her wrists) and Niënor could stare at her for a long, long time, but appearances must be kept up.)

Finduilas is slower this time; the way her hair is tied to her wrists impedes her movements. Niënor's already on the brink of her climax, though, her clit tight and feeling stiff and stretched in a way that she recognizes. Even the tentative moments, which become bolder as Finduilas becomes accustomed to the bondage, send waves of pleasure to her core, as sensitive as she is. Finduilas' tongue is hot and wet it dips inside her cunt for a while, licking and probing, and it feels _good_.

And then Finduilas moves up and takes Niënor's clit into her mouth and _sucks_.

It's the tight, warm suction that has her collapsing on the ground (there are stones and dirt and she's going to be extremely uncomfortable when she's not blissed out, but right now she can't bring herself to care) as the waves of pleasure roar to a peak and crash through her body, setting what feels like every single one of her nerve endings alight.

Eventually, she manages to pry her eyes open, only to find that Finduilas has somehow managed to position herself in such a way that she's rubbing against Niënor's closed fist, her face a frenzy of desperation.

Niënor is torn, because Finduilas looks _gorgeous_ , and Niënor wants to keep her hanging and desperate for some time longer. It would be unfair, though; Finduilas has been very good, and the aphrodisiac must be driving her crazy.

“Come here,” Niënor says. “I'll get you off properly.”

The angle is awkward—she can't summon the strength to raise herself from the ground—but Finduilas doesn't seem to mind. And she doesn't require much, anyway; she's already tense all over, and a few touches are enough for her to climax, shuddering, and collapse on top of Niënor.

Niënor unties Finduilas' bonds (she's getting Finduilas' all over the belt, but it can't be helped), and massages her wrists gently even as Finduilas curls into Niënor, her head on Niënor's shoulders. They trading slow, lazy kisses, for maybe five minutes. Then Finduilas breaks away.

“Niënor?”

“Yes?”

“This still hasn't worn off, it seems, because I'm still aroused.”

Niënor groans. She's exhausted and wrung out, but Finduilas still looks ready to go. Her cheeks are still red (though the colour is fading), and she looks absolutely debauched, but she's managed to sit up, her legs splayed out and her hands running (perhaps unconsciously, perhaps on purpose) up and down her inner thighs in a way that's making Niënor's breath catch. _How_ has the pollen not worn off yet? The gold dust isn't in the air any more; surely the effects must fade quickly after it disappears?

But she can't deny Finduilas anything, she knows, and so she relents. “I'm going to set our tent up first, because I won't be able to move once we're done.” She drags herself up into a standing position. Maybe she can jump into the stream she can hear bubbling near by. The cold water might give her some energy. (It'll wreck havoc on her libido, of course, but she's sure Finduilas will be able to fix that quickly.)

“And Finduilas? You can touch yourself all you want, but don't you dare to come until _I_ touch you.”


End file.
